The Fly Who Loved Me

It's hard to believe God loves you when you're a fly. I mean, what is my purpose on this planet anyway? My job - literally - is shit. Not exactly something you want to brag about to the cool fireflies and lovable ladybugs of the world. I'm just not exactly sure what valuable service it is I'm rendering here. Yeah, I know we're good food for frogs and spiders and such, but isn't there a way I can be useful and stay alive?

Worst of all, knowing my own ugliness drives me to seek out beauty like water in a desert. That's a tough thing when one is relegated to garbage bins, road kill and all the other places the fine humans avoid. It's a helluva trap: the only way to please the humans is by staying away. And yet, I'm drawn to them as much as seeking air when under water. Like I said, with a fate like this, so very, very hard to believe one is one of God's favored creatures.

Knowing this, I hope you will understand my weakness in my infamous Mashed Potatoes Moment. Trust me, I understand your possible condemnation of me. I understand what I did was deplorable, inexcusable and indefensible. I grant you all these things. It's not hard to realize how a species feels about you when they name a device just for your killing. But I hope you can understand that even if it's only for a few seconds, one hopes and prays and needs to avoid the plight of a pest.

Ever hear of a lady bug swatter??

I know you hate us, dear humans, so know that it takes a lot of gall to be the fly that visits your outdoor picnics. I myself have yelled at my fellow flies, chastising them for antagonizing the beautiful humans, ruining our reputation are these rascals who incite holy human wrath. I wanted to believe I was above such behavior, that I was one of the good flies, hopefully making amends for my unwanted presence on this globe. But alas, I too could not resist the picnic's siren call.

Please note I held out resisting my feelings for as long as I could. But it feels so good to do wrong and so empty to do right! Maybe I could have died a good fly had I not seen the Special One. She was part of a massive picnic, eating her chicken and corn in a fancy backyard soiree warmed by a gentle afternoon sun. She was all dreams and flowers and incense and peppermints. Everything a fly is not. No longer could I spend another day with the rotting fruit on the loading docks after spying this vision!

Madness seized my mind, possessing me and caressing me, putting me on clouds where I did not belong. Zipping through the air, the wind rushing past my ears drowned out the voices of reason, that neither a bird nor a bee I be. All I saw was the Special One - someone to wait a lifetime for - and a chance to savor the good life under the sweet suburban sky. And that's exactly how I of all flies ended up landing squarely on top of the Special One's mashed potatoes.

I expected shrieks of horror and dismay, a swatting or a killing, death by infamy's disdain. But none of that happened! To high heaven I beamed, a favored creature of God after all! Take that, insect kingdom! Even the loveliest of butterflies would envy me now! Who is it that may cross to the other side of Eden, tasting paradise lost? How to explain when myth is reality and one sees beyond the end of time? In my tiny insect legs I held the Dream of eternal life. So this is how the beautiful bugs live.

But as is so often the case even in a world full of flyswatters and bug zappers and insect repellant, it is not the hammer that brings doom but rather love. Her failure to curse me, to loathe me as the fly who loved her forced me to face my dirty life such as it was: I was spreading germs on her food and thus into her being. This is how I repay her love? Do not dream to be what you are not, foolish fly! Ask not what you can get but rather what you can give! Never had such thoughts entered my tiny mind before.

And then, reality.

It was not love, it was never love, it was a time mistaken. She simply had not noticed me in her food. Instantly I saw the dark shadow of the hand coming for me, the one I've spent a lifetime avoiding. Oh why oh why did I not leave sooner before I drew her ire? I could have carried that memory to the end of my life had I the integrity of a rebirthed chrysalis. I knew it was wrong to spread my disease but I just couldn't pull away from my moment in the sun. Her cry of "Goddam fly!" still rings in my ears.

I flew with the fear of a thousand angry flyswatters chasing me. Why is it only when it's too late do we understand? Now I must spend the rest of my days with heavy guilt upon my wings, barely able even to fly. I even envy the other flies now who buzz so freely. Now it is they who will curse me for bringing hatred to our species. Had I not betrayed the Special One I could have at least kept the dignity of the dung heap, such as it was. But as it is, my hearts seeks only the lost fate of a spider's meal and for my life to become useful after all.

God, Guns, And Formula 1

Formula 1 track under construction

I'm still rather giddy with the prospect of Formula 1 returning to America, much less here in my own backyard. A tentative date has been set of June 17, 2012 for the inaugural race at the Circuit Of Americas just east of Austin. But if there's one fatal flaw almost all new tracks have it's traffic flow. Or rather, the lack of it.

At the inaugural race last week for NASCAR at the Kentucky track, horror stories were told of some stuck 8 hours in a traffic jam and completely missing the race. Takes a lot infrastructure to handle 120,000 people - and that's the exact same number expected for the United States Grand Prix. So I decided to kill two birds with one stone.

It's at least a three hour drive to Austin so by the time I'd usually get there the heat would be so oppressive I'd be roasted alive. But last weekend I couldn't sleep, woke up around 4 AM and figured out I could get down to Austin around 8-9 before the heat got to be too scorching. But I also wanted to find a back way in so I could avoid all the masses in my cheap sunglasses.

I took the interstate about 2/3rds of the way down but then I veered off into rural Texas - always an adventure! But if you're expecting some sort of stereotype of god, guns and flags, you'd be right on the money! Driving off the interstate is like going over the rainbow into another land, another mindset where fantasy and reality mix into one. However, I don't consider that to be all bad.

St. John Lutheran Church

This magnificent structure surrounded by swaying fields and gentle breezes is an absolute temple of nature. Put aside your feelings about religion one way or the other and just enjoy the peace and harmony. This was one of the first places saw on my backway down. I could have stayed there all day. Built in the early 30's it stands testament to beauty for beauty's sake.

Just because there's no God in religion
doesn't mean there's no God

Stained glass reflections

Playground on the edge of infinity's dream

What a fine start that was! I was feeling like Lynyrd Skynyrd: "Turn it up!" Rural folk like to kick up their heels just like anyone else and there was more than one bar I passed along the way, places that make you wonder what sort of stories could be told of alcohol and bullets. "Give me three steps, mister!" indeed. Wonder how they'd react to my BeeGees CD?

Can't tell from here but they had a flag stuffed in one window

High tech hicks! Gotta get that NASCAR feed in there!

I passed through quite a few dying small towns stuck in a pre-WWII time warp of architecture and brick roads. Had I more time I could have made a study of all the historical buildings in all their glorious states of both use and decay. To me, with their attention to detail, built with a flair you never see now, they speak of high hopes and a grand optimism for the future. But like a high school hero, they peaked in their youth and we're all left wondering what could have been.

I immediately thought of Bonnie and Clyde here


City Hall/steak house. Gotta love it!


Still in use! Sort of


Who would build anything so regal nowadays?

In between the towns was field after field, mostly of dead looking golden stalks of which I could not discern. I did find a couple of fields where the plants had been rolled up and baled but I never came across anyone to identify them. But anytime I see a planted field I just want to go running through it touching each leaf, there's something timeless about it.

Field after field of this all the way down


Welcome to the Texas drought


What poor animal will be fed this?

Of course, we loves us some guns here in Tejas. And though I can't say the days of a gun strapped to your leg won't return here we do allow concealed weapons as a compromise. One has to be certified first, of course. I doubt an IQ test is involved. Luckily, you won't have to drive to the big city to get your license, we got ya covered no matter where you go in Texas. As you'll see capitalism is alive and well!

No one was amused when I asked if I could get my water gun certified


Getting ahead of the curve for the Formula 1 track!


What? Another Jerry's bar? The guy's got a chain going!

Finally I made it down to the track. As I feared, it was difficult to get any good vantage points. Also, the area immediately around the track is very rustic - in a Deliverance sort of way. I'm not out there two minutes before some hick steps out on his porch giving me the evil eye. I dunno, maybe he's never seen a camera before. Maybe he thought I was a revenuer come to take his truck! All I knew was I wanted out of there.

Not much you can really see yet.

I snuck back to take a picture of his castle
and thus steal his toothless soul

Headed back on the interstate I breathed a sigh of relief to be back among the living. I reflected on the wild and wooly wonderland through which I had just passed. Part of me wanted to explore it further, to peer in every crack and crevice. Part of me thanked God Almighty my car did not break down. But what it really was was a pleasant reminder that even in what seems to be vast swaths of emptiness, there are stories hidden away, speaking of lives that make up part of the global song we all sing.

But of course, even on the interstate one is not too far from our rural roots:

A few miles south of Waco on I-35

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My video came out pretty crappy so here's a time lapse video from the Circuit Of Americas website.



Click here to see all the pictures

Don't Call Them "Heroes", You Heartless Bastards!

Are you a manipulator too?

It's a slick trick, one used throughout the ages by the Machiavelli's of the world. It's a way of making your life comfortable at the expense of another's. It's a way of making yourself look good while sticking a knife in someone else. At its best it's predatory, binding the weak in servitude, at its worst it's a fatal torture. Whatever you do, don't call the men and women in our military "heroes".

I know, I know - all the excuses of plausible deniability are still out there (for now). Why, you're just a raging patriot is all! You're bursting with pride at your child! Hooray for all things military! Thanks for keeping us safe! I support the troops because I say only good things! Either you're blind or a traitor!

On Christmas Eve of 2003, Kevin Lucey noticed the first sign of the "hidden wounds" ravaging his grown son, Jeff.

Jeff Lucey, a 23-year-old Marine lance corporal had been back from Iraq just a few months and was living quietly with his parents in Belchertown, Mass.

That night, Kevin suddenly "took off his dog tags and tossed them at his younger sister, crying," and began "saying he was nothing more than a murderer," the father recalled Thursday.

Who gets to decide which feelings count?

No, what you really are is a fool, hiding behind society's hypocrisy. Let's look at what you're really saying, you clever dawg you! What you're really saying is your feelings count more than those of the soldiers'. Rare is the parent who says to their child, "Tell me your honest feelings." Nah, it's much easier to decide their feelings for them. If the kid doesn't agree, fuck 'em, don't want to hear it. This is especially true when you've mistreated them.

It's a natural human inclination to want to hear good things said about yourself. And human weakness being what it is we tend to treat one another as suckers whenever we get the chance. "Hey, clean my toilet for me and I'll say you're a great person!" Which then expands to: "Hey, go fight a war for me and I'll say you're a hero!" The trick, of course, is to leave off the word "sucker" at the end.

But having applied for a state police job, Kevin was afraid that the "stigma" of having "possible issues" would ruin his job prospects, the father said.

Over the next few months, the young man's symptoms kept getting worse. His bouts of rage at the government and at the war grew more frequent.

He drank heavily, once even totaling the family car in an accident. He told his parents chilling stories of Iraqi prisoners he had killed - stories the military has since claimed are not substantiated.

If we're so proud why don't we see this on the front page?

People like to claim human nature is evil so they can give up on a whole host of responsibilities they'd otherwise be obliged to do. But everyone has a need to serve and feel useful. But that does not mean we've reached the point where we fully recognize that. Instead, we use people. We all know there's guaranteed public kudos for serving in the military and a stigma on anyone who disagrees.

"My child gave his life for this country so I'm damn proud of our wars!" I once read where a mother said she had no choice but to believe that.

How selfish is selfish? We are wasting lives in our wars. Admitting that is the beginning of the end of the insanity. Being selfish - wanting to keep the killing going rather than admitting our mistakes - only perpetuates the insanity. Millions upon countless millions of lives have been lost in war. You really want to contend every one of those deaths served a good purpose? Weren't parents of the SS troops just as proud?

His parents finally convinced him that May to get treatment from the Department of Veterans Affairs, but they were shocked by the agency's slow response, the bureaucracy they encountered, and by the tendency of VA docs to release his son after a few days.

"Here you have a [Marine] struggling to try to take his next breath, and they were demanding the [discharge papers] and they were demanding he travel approximately 30 to 40 miles away from our home [for treatment]," Kevin Lucey said.

And waving our red weapons o'er our heads
Let's all cry 'Peace, Freedom, Liberty!'
Shakespeare - Julius Caesar

It's an easy seduction to claim we're always the good guys doing the right thing. But what if those doing the killing don't agree? What if they have to live with the reality of the situation as opposed to some self-serving fantasy? Are you a good parent who wants to hear the truth? Do we want to face the fact we're killing and being killed to obtain natural resources from abroad, just like Germany and Japan did in WWII?

No, we don't have to face it (not yet, anyway) but our soldiers do. They don't have the luxury of lying to themselves. We see no use for the souls, only their bodies. Men whose lives have been wrecked by evil helplessly send others to the same fate. That's why we don't listen to our troops. That's why we cage them with words like "hero" and "savior". That's why we doom them into silence before they can speak.

Don't call them "heroes", you heartless bastards. Let them tell us what they think are - and then accept them regardless.

The next day, Kevin Lucey found the body of his son in the basement of the house, his neck bound with a garden hose, dangling from the beams in the ceiling.

Next to the body was a shrine with Jeff's dog tags, two dogs tags of Iraqi soldiers his son claimed to have killed, several family photos arranged in a semicircle, a photo of his platoon in the middle and three notes.

"He once again was in my lap as I was cutting him down from the beams," the dad said.

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Where's the soldiers' wall for victims of suicide?

Suicidal soldiers are humiliated by superiors with fatal results, military medical experts say

["Shut up, kid! Don't want to hear it!"]

Depressed soldiers who seek help for suicidal thoughts have been publicly mocked by higherups, military medical experts told the Daily News.

The bullying involves "humiliating-type behavior in ranks, formations, where soldiers were singled out and identified as someone who is suicidal, publicly ridiculed, and things along that nature," said Army Maj. Gen. Philip Volpe.

"They call a person out in front of a formation and chew 'em out" in a misguided effort at "tough love," said Bonnie Carroll, a retired Air Force major and head of the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors. "They tell them, 'You dishonored your unit. You're worthless.'"

["If you're not a hero then there must be something wrong with you! Doing God's work here!"]

Volpe, who with Carroll led the Pentagon's suicide-prevention task force, said he has witnessed bullying - and in one case relieved a lieutenant colonel who was verbally abusing a distraught soldier.

As military suicide rates continue to rise as a result of multiple deployments to Afghanistan and Iraq, the Army and the other services have struggled to erase the longstanding stigma of seeking professional help.

"Does the issue of stigma and soldiers being stigmatized exist? Yes. Have soldiers been demeaned, belittled, ostracized? The answer is yes," said Col. Chris Philbrick of the Army's Health Promotion, Risk Reduction Council.

For Marine Gunnery Sgt. Jim Gallagher, 40, of Brooklyn, that stigma - the fear of being seen as weak and how that might affect his career - was too much for him to ask for help.

After a tour in Iraq, Gallagher hanged himself at Camp Pendleton, Calif., in 2006.

"For him, it was an insult to be that vulnerable," said his widow, Mary Gallagher. "He knew it would be the termination of his position" if he sought counseling.

"Jim didn't know how to do that. He didn't know where to go," Mary Gallagher told The News. "I was so blindsided. I had no idea he was in such pain."

["Keep you pain to yourself like a real man! No one will want you if you don't!"]

Last year, a record 245 Army troops killed themselves, with an additional 166 suicides through August of this year [2010].

"There's still a mind-set out there in our culture that says asking for help is a sign of weakness," Philbrick said. "We're trying to get to a place where we see it as a sign of strength."

After four recent suicides in a single weekend at Fort Hood, Tex., Adm. Mike Mullen, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, warned of a possible spike in troops taking their own lives.

"The emergency right now is suicide," Mullen grimly noted.

The General and The Magician: A Spy Story Untold

Magical!

The park of a summer day spans across time. Its leafy greens sway in the same breezes as distant Eden, reaching back to a time of simple joy, no justification needed nor asked. Life's promise washes faces fresh with joy, wiping them clean for their Maker. Moments of endless summer transpire and you wonder why all life isn't like this; who would ever stand in the way of such paradise? How much have we forgotten, how much have we yet to learn? It's like stepping into a floating dream even time cannot sink. A dream both before and after Man.

But at night, friendly trees no longer sing and the ghosts of ancient Black Forests lament their fate. They wail of ages when men of steel crawled from the dark, taking lives as Terror's messengers to forever stain mankind's memory. But it's not the mere slaying of lives they seek but the purging of all peaceful rest. Drive them from their sleep till madness takes their minds; that's when man and ghost become one. Darkness, the time for hidden deeds, also suited well the two blank, sturdy assassins come to murder a tall, elderly Russian man, the General, as otherworldly eyes watched in recoiled pain.

Though long expatriated to America, for seven dicey years the General spied on his native country in the name of freedom. He was crafty and cunning, an observor of human nature as any spy needs to be - or any Russian general for that matter. But while a disciplined person, he was not a disciplined spy and as such he afforded himself a luxury no true spy ever would: a routine. The killers easily spotted their target with his cropped, grey hair, stiff khaki collar, and dangling Gauloise cigarette on his nightly walk of his terrier.

But why kill the old General? Because he was a fanatic who never stops. In the parable of the seeds, he was the soft and fertile ground, ferreting out truth to the very end, never letting it die. As others drop out, discouraged and depleted of faith, the General trudges onward following the light of freedom. And why not? Is not freedom the true desire of every soul ever born? For a man such as he, no other path was possible. But now the General's light shone too brightly with the evidence he'd found, making him the target for human imposters in the dark.

***********

To the American Agency, the General was old news, a thorn in their side whom they had to pay heed since he was such a high ranking Soviet defection. But that was back in the Cold War days and many scoffed at the General's continuing efforts, calling him a relic of the past fighting a war already won. His fears were summarily dismissed. "The Russian state doesn't go around killing dissidents anymore. You're an old romantic, general!" But the General knew better, the danger real as the scorching sun.

No one wants to believe the Soviets are the Soviets anymore. The former Communists use this to their advantage. To the West they speak of their rejection of old style Communism, of embracing change and its ensuing enlightenment. They must be enlightened, they contend, for they are now like the West. This the West - and the Agency - like to hear.

And even when not believed, it is still believed. Such is the force of policy mandated.

Old ways die hard, taking new names and shapes - but what if only a guillotine’s veneer has changed? Is not the blade still as sharp? How very important the law of inertia: it matters not if the initial push is for ill will or love's labor, it takes time to stop a rolling boulder. The still sharp edge of the Russians can be understood, reasoned some. What can't be understood is when the crushing boulder destroys living lives in its path and comes a devil's brigade to push it anew, to turn back the clock of progress.

My, how things have not changed!

What the General had obtained was gold dust, evidence of incontrovertible proof of election rigging and voter fraud even now twenty years after the fall of the wall. The depths of subterfuge were so deep it would illegitimize the government and cause embarrassment to any country who continued to recognize the regime as a legitimate ruling power. If the appallingly phony numbers were released to the international community, there would be no choice but to put the truly elected victor into power.

Not that anyone elected in the West was of the General's ilk, relentlessly calling out for truth. But because a veneer of respectability has to be maintained by those nations who claim to be honest democracies.

The way the General learned the truth was through the Magician - a scruffy, wiry man hated by the Agency excepting for a few wise souls. He was called the Magician for the astoundingly detailed and deeply embedded information he could uncover. But others called him different names: pimp, degenerate, scoundrel, lowlife. This he was as well and in his weaker moments he'd provide flaky information on small time operations and people in the night he suspected. But on the big stuff - stuff aimed right at the heart of the Kremlin's powerbrokers - he was never wrong.

The Magician's magic rests in the very downfall of deception itself: a successful deceiver must be respectable to the world but needs a home for his true face. The Magician's power was in his lack of pretense, to provide a seemingly safe harbor that every liar must secretly visit. In the Magician's presence, words were spoken freely, as when a racist believes he's with his own kind. This does not mean state secrets flowed out into his hands - though that did happen on occasion - but it did mean he'd find their irresistible weaknesses. And when the time was right he'd mercilessly exploit that to his benefit.

The Magician - like the General - was old school, playing by old school rules. But the Agency has fanatics of its own, preachers to whom pretense means victory. Church on Sunday means as much as work on Monday. They were a clean people running a clean agency for the benefit of a clean country. Such were their unquestionable gods. For an obvious heathen like the Magician to be given credence was intolerable and - to their perception - suicidal. To hell with the message, only the messenger counts.

The General's dead body complicated all that. He'd been assassinated by the Russians who'd made it obvious by using a soft nosed bullet to the face, their calling card of old. The news the General brought - discarded because it was gathered by the Magician - had to be reconsidered as a matter of course for the investigation. "Damn that little man!" cursed one pious operative of the Magician. Giving credit to the likes of him was in complete violation of her personally purified agenda.

Agents were sent out to find the direct evidence held by the Magician, who kept no known home address. Sex clubs, swinger houses and seedy apartments across Germany were excavated in the search. Finally, in a camp of indigents and ne'er-do-wells who indulged their freedom in debauchery and laziness, a shack was found that claimed to be his. Unfortunately, a place so loose and easy to live in unnoticed also makes an easy place to die unnoticed. His tortured body lay in the corner, the look of horror still frozen upon it.

Professional torturers are hard to find nowadays. It is supposed any thug will do as long as he's willing to go the distance. (Abu Ghraib didn't change world policy but rather hardened it in pride.) But a thug only indulges his perverted desires, not the unearthing of truth. He does not let his victim retreat to gather hope, to patiently let him tell his story over and over until only the truth remains. No, he acts unthinkingly - his true goal all along - and if he goes too far the truth is never retrieved. As happened here.

A truthseeker?

They beat him, they electrocuted him, they persistently punished his pain until the Magician was no more. But this man - this pimp, whore, sex maniac - would not break, the brutes only inflaming his resolve. It was a godsend they never let up, for each second he got closer to death the closer the Magician knew he could bury his secret with him. All he need do was keep holding out. It was not just the proof he was keeping safe but the forever freedom of his soul. He fought for a free Russia because he needed a free life. In a world built on facades, the Magician never hid his face.

The incompetent thugs left empty handed. Young and unschooled in tradecraft, they'd never heard of oldtime Moscow Rules and thus never noticed a seemingly innocuous chalk line by the ceiling that marked a fishing line that could not be seen even when staring directly at it. But since the General was from the old days an oldtime investigator was sent in who knew right away what the chalk line meant. He traced the fishing line to a drain pipe outside where a carefully packaged USB flash drive contained news of the world known to few.

***********

The memo on the President's desk was clear and definitive: the Russian Prime Minister was a fraud and a crook. Russia, having morphed into a corporate oligarchy protected by an equally corrupt government would be forced to undergo drastic changes with an honest man at the helm. The country's current structure holds an economic stranglehold on millions as the infrastructure and common good decay while only an elite few participate in the wealth - talk about a merging with the West!

The anxious eyes of men who'd also built lives sustained by the chains on their fellow man sat waiting in velvet chairs while their professorial leader ingested the situation in the Oval Office. Will he propose an intellectual response outside our agenda? Will he be blind for the need for greed? Will my wife still love me if I lose this position of power? Every prop man there was a smart man who knew they lived in a house of cards one day doomed to fold. But not this day. The conspirators mentally armed for battle were their leader to finally face the music of the times.

The President pushed the Top Secret paper to the edge of his desk. "We have too many deals in place with them already. I don't believe it would be pragmatic to pursue this."

"Who will ever know of my mistake?"

Relieved smiles exchanged underhanded assurances the evidence would be destroyed, denied and disdained - all in the name of mythical national security. That men had died getting this information caused secret delight to these cowardly creatures. That the voice of the Russian people was to be betrayed also pleased these misfit mutants (who'd also betrayed an American election and saw this as a vindication). Truth came knocking but no one had ears. These men weren't fanatics of justice like the General nor devoted to freedom like the Magician. No, these men claim a pretended piety above Nature's law.

But one day the Day of Reckoning will come, and what was once considered "pragmatic" will then be seen for what it is: an invitation to treason. No man - or country - can be a true ally who does not pursue freedom.

Tracing the last footsteps of the General

Where Is Home?

It doesn't get any better, kid

We're all runaways, looking for a home. Some find one, some don't. It's the difference between living and dying.

I was watching Fraidy Cat Carl bow up in a conversation the other day. Carl, a short black guy with Short Man's Syndrome if I've ever seen a case, but that's not his worst problem, he came to the shelter like that. Now that he's a part of the big, bad homeless jungle, he's playing a part in his mind on how he should act. He's Mr. Badass but he doesn't realize we're secretly laughing at him a lot of the time. He's like the guy in Stripes who insisted he only be referred to as "Psycho". He wants you to fear him because he fears you.

He's playing a role, running away.

Deborah is a woman from Northern Dallas hoping to find meaning in her life donating items to us. I'm not judging here, just observing. When I watch her unload the back of her overly large SUV I can see she's doing it partly out of sincerity and partly out of a forced duty. But ever since some of us were brought up to do some contract labor on her house I've known she's a runaway too. She's hiding in her marriage. At first, I highly envied her that because it seems so much more preferable than the humiliating shelter.

But like the Eagles said, every form of refuge has its price and I saw in her eyes that look I know so well, pleading for a life saver to be thrown her way. That was a moment of revelation for me: that someone living in a quarter of a million dollar home could have the same look as a homeless person. "Jesus!" I thought. "Is there anywhere that's safe?"

I got just one word for you, Carl: "Boo!"

There are two faces to the homeless and rarely are both portrayed at once. Some make a sympathetic case and try to point out only innocent victims. Does this mean we don't help the "guilty" victims? Some point out only the desperate nature of our plight and the desperate acts sure to follow. But what know they of the community that forms when perilous times come? That oftentimes unspoken bond is the only thing many of us have to hold on to.

The whole world is running away. The homeless are on the frontlines, on the very cutting edge of society, showing which way the wind blows. Our soldiers fight yesterday's battles, our politicians represent our fear of ourselves, and the world cries out for change without having to change. But I live in a spot where the lies are revealed, the true war never ceases and empty promises hold no sway. It's hard to hide yourself from those whom you've crucified.

If we look at the man elected to lead us I see someone who is of two minds. On one hand he needs to believe he's a good and liberal man. On the other hand is intruding reality. To be liberal, to be fair and honest and just to your fellow man one must be nonjudgemental. But here is a man who confuses having no judgement as to what's right and wrong with being nonjudgemental. The more he tries to force that lie down his throat the grayer his hair gets. He's a homeless runaway too, living in the most famous house of all.

"Where is home again?"

And what of those who've given their lives over to greed? It's not a question of how much is enough. It takes endless resources to stay on the run. All those suited up little men hiding behind keyboards manipulating numbers and lives with keystrokes more devastating than any bomb are building their wealth by wasting their lives. And few are those who wouldn't trade places with them. Let's runaway in style!

What I'd like to ask is what we're all running away from. I don't call those who risk death as being brave. I call those who risk life as being brave. It's interesting to see all the different reactions to those who receive the Scarlet 'H'. Anger is universal but it's in the solutions we seek where the soul is revealed. Some want to return death for death (um *cough*), some just want out and pretend it never happened, some demand change - but only while they are in the line of fire. Few want to admit we've made a world that cannot be trusted.

Where is home? Is it in money? Is it in a church building? Is it in military means? Is it where nature cannot strike? Or is it only in our hearts? People with no home in their hearts will wreck their planet beyond repair looking for that home. There's only one possible home: and that is love.

OK, so the video doesn't age that well.

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For America's "99ers," jobs crisis is hard to escape

SEWELL, New Jersey (Reuters) - Mary Kay Coyne has just filed what she says is her 1,862nd job application since being thrown out of work three years ago.

She is one of millions of Americans whose unemployment benefits have expired -- after 99 weeks in many states -- as the United States suffers its highest level of long-term unemployment since 1948.

Coyne had to move in with a friend after benefit payments ran out last year. Now she gets by on Medicaid -- U.S. health insurance for the poor -- and food stamps, contributing what little she can to her friend's household costs.

"You're 56-years old and you feel like you are sitting on a big pile of nothing," said Coyne, who spends about four hours a day sending out resumes.

"For the better part of a year, I have something sitting on my chest. It's not a medical condition. It is that pressure of 'Is this going to end, when is this going to end?'"

Unlike in much of Europe, the safety net of the U.S. welfare system times out for the long-term unemployed. The federal government and many states have provided extra help for those caught up in the worst labor market in decades but the U.S. debt crisis rules out further extension of the programs.

...In 2010, an estimated 3.9 million unemployed Americans exhausted unemployment benefits, according to the National Employment Law Project, an advocacy group that campaigns for lower-wage workers.

More than 14 percent of the U.S. unemployed have been out of a job for 99 weeks, or longer.

The Labor Department’s report on Friday showed that the unemployment rate climbed to a six-month high of 9.2 percent in June.

Many so-called "99ers" subsist on social services like food stamps and Medicaid, programs now in danger of deep cuts demanded by many Republicans in Congress in exchange for allowing the federal government to go deeper into debt.

"An increase in demand for social services is what you would expect in a downturn of this magnitude and so the fact that they are cutting the social safety net is quite perplexing," said Sylvia Allegretto, a labor economist at the University of California at Berkeley. "We've just never seen (long-term unemployment) at these levels, period."

Forty six percent of those looking for work have been jobless for six months or more and the average length of job searches that eventually result in a hiring has doubled to 10 weeks between 2007 and 2010.

...Just as the United States prepares to tighten its belt and deal with its fiscal crisis, demand for key aid programs has never been higher.

The number of Americans signed up for the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) -- which provides food stamps -- has reached its highest level since it began in 1939. One in seven Americans now receive aid from the program.

Medicaid enrollment as of 2010 surpassed 68.2 million, its highest level in the program's history.

Cuts to these programs now seem inevitable as states struggle to plug budget gaps and lawmakers on Capital Hill turn their attention to the budget deficit.

The White House has reportedly agreed to $100 billion in cuts to Medicaid over the next 10 years. Some House Republicans want cuts of more than seven times that amount.

Last week, federal stimulus programs providing billions of dollars for state Medicaid programs ran out.

The cuts are piling on the pressure for the long-term unemployed.

Of Godly Wars And Ungodly Peace

"He who lives by the sword dies by the sword."

E=mc2

Stated above are two laws of the universe to be observed or not observed as each person sees fit, but making neither less true by lack of acknowledgement. By acknowledging reality we gain life, by denying it we gain death. There are those who see salvation on both sides - only one can be correct. The proof is in the music!

In 1812 Napoleon was at the height of his powers, all Europe at his feet, seemingly unstoppable. That time - as all times - held war as man's final outlet for self-expression. To lesser eyes, Napoleon was "lucky", a man whom chance favored in battle and who but for the falling of a leaf victory would have been denied. But those are the voices that speak out against all genius, failing to see the design that creates success and opportunities, leaving smaller minds to debate what they see as the "happenstance" of events.

It's clear now we lost World War II. True, we ended the Nazi threat as had to be done but we failed to end the threat of war - which also had to be done. The Age of War is over and to continue this folly only furthers our demise. We have retreated from victory, declaring peace the true enemy and war our true friend. It's the deceived vanity of all liars: Man can live by the sword and E<>mc2. How wonderful to trump reality!

Napoleon lived by the sword as an up and coming officer who shone the light of clarity in times of confusion. He lived by the sword as he staved off rival nations bent on destroying France. He lived by the sword as he sought conquest for conquest's sake, swilling from the cup of power. He had to wonder: "Do I have any limits? Can I forever war after all? Why does God not reel me in?" Thus Napoleon sought conquest over his greatest foe: truth itself.

Hope a patriot told him it's a good war

Only in the perverse nature of war is where victory invites defeat. We "won" WWII after all and that invited us to further "good" wars as we swilled from the cup of power. We pray at the empty altar of war to save us from the looming destruction of peace we imagine in our minds. We fight evil windmills and shadows of our own making as we slide down the slope of defeat. But we see that defeat not as the fault of war, but of the lack of it. War is peace in Man's triumphant mind, making our lies safe.

The invasion of Russia was Napoleon's cry for help, to bring his life back under control. That's why he said he had no choice but to invade. For the hapless Russians, they wailed at defeat after defeat as the French army advanced. Where does hope lay when denied the glory of war? Uncoordinated and disorganized, the people resorted to simple survival tactics, scorching the earth and engaging in seething retreat. So much gnashing of teeth at being unable to live by the sword! They hung their heads, succumbing to reality and fearing the worst for it.

We've "cleverly" declared victory in our invasions of the Middle East even as our actions speak defeat. Like Napoleon's army, we're lured further and further in as the greatest power on earth, exercising our will but calling it God's. But just as with the Russian invasion, each day we continue means only another day of our own destruction in return. And just as Napoleon knew he violated the laws of the universe, so do we, yet we march onward to our doom. As is so often the case, actual victory lies in surrender.

You can't do that without a Kalashnikov!

Both the French and the Russians sought to honor the gods of war. Like lemmings led over a cliff, the French closed their eyes in what they called patriotic duty in a united front against survival. For the Russians, both old men and boys swelled with tears at the idea of dying for their country in glorious battle. For where in ordinary life does one get the chance to be so selfless? A land of vast and cruel slavery ached to fight for freedom. Denied that chance, the Russians were left with only themselves to face: the fate to be avoided all costs.

No one cares what our wars cost us (in any terms), we close our eyes in what we call patriotic duty. In our land of vast slavery where tens of millions are trapped by the denial of work, of working poverty, and the unfettered drain of resources from the many to the few we fight in the name of freedom. And the more "success" we hail the deeper the hole we dig. Yes it's true, we say: He who lives by the sword dies by the sword. But it's just not true for us. We cheer our own demise!

Napoleon was crushed by forces greater than any army. And once begun, the spiral downward was as unstoppable as the previous ascension. The great asset of the lemmings' blindness to be led worked against the general as each one leapt off the cliff, refusing to stop so as not to dishonor those who went before. It was the great bleeding of a country as she lost all her strength and war carried victory to her enemies. None of the foreseeable was foreseen because the hallowed fool ruled the day declaring, "Who's to say what is real and what is not?"

"My wife's fat as a cow!"

"It's my wife. She's..."

"She's what?"

He was sitting at the bar as if in a foreign country, wearing his pinstriped suit like a uniform against the elements. His hair was measured and pristine, demarking his good graces with society's mores. He sat like a banker who'd never explored life because he was a banker who'd never explored life.

"Maybe I shouldn't say anything..."

The banker's bar mate was relaxed and bored, drinking the atmosphere as he'd done countless times before. Every once in a while he'd run into these "uptights" who'd walk in looking lost, peering over their shoulder to see if anyone was watching, and seeking outward approval. Sometimes he took them under his wing, sometimes he threw them under the bus, as the case warranted.

But it was obvious the banker was asking permission to speak freely.

"Spit it out, man. You're a free man here."

"Well, it's just that she's changed over the years. It's been twenty years now..."

"And what? She's fat as a cow?"

The banker swiveled in surprise. "Yes, my wife's fat as a cow. She just keeps bloating and bloating. It's her whole body, her head round like a pumpkin."

The banker demonstrated with his hands the roundness of her head, pleading his case.

"I see, I see. That happens, my man. Believe me, you ain't the first guy stuck in that boat!" The man of the world knew there was more.

The banker was relieved his immoral inadequacy was received sans outrage and fury. Truly, he felt the bar mate had every right to slap him and bid him speak no more. "I just don't understand it. She keeps eating and eating like someone's going to take her food away. We talked about it once and she said she can't help it, she just has to." She had to because it was the only thing that made her feel good anymore.

"Tell her you don't want a fat wife. Tell her it's for her own good, for her health and all that."

"I did tell her it was for her health. That's when she told me she can't stop. I was thinking maybe it's a disorder but I couldn't push it any further. I felt like if I did she was going to tell me something horrible." She was going to tell him she felt miserable and trapped.

"Horrible? Like what? She can't live without cake? Look, there's tons of women out there, they take care of themselves, they like to look good. She's just taking advantage of you 'cause she's got you wrapped around her finger. You need to stand up for yourself!"

As the blushing bride

The smoky room, the self-confident chatter in the background, and this man of the world before him intoxicated the banker. How thrilling to openly speak these illicit thoughts! It's like joining a club where everyone understands you. All these years avoiding "sinful" bars - what had he been missing?

"I admit, part of me feels that way. You know, it's two people in a marriage - "

"Exactly!"

" - and I've made massive amounts of money" - fulfilling his unwritten contract - "so I just sort of thought she could...well, like you said it's for her own good too."

The man of the world was leaning towards the bus option for the cowardly banker. "Listen, man, life's too short! You can do better -"

"Oh, no!"

"You got two choices here: spend time with someone you want or spend time with someone you don't want."

"It's not as simple as that..."

"Sure it is! It is if you're a man."

"But I made promises. Her parents, my family, the kids...everybody. They'd think I'm a heel if I left."

"You wanna be a heel or a sucker? Don't you dream of being alive? Haven't you thought about being a free man and getting what you want?"

The banker was in edgy territory now. These bar people are fearless and know everything about life. They don't shelter themselves away, living behind lies and strained smiles like I do. He must think I'm a fool! The banker replied as expected. "Yes, I have thoughts like that but..."

"But what? You're going to die for your marriage? You're going to keep secretly praying she's going to lose weight and get sexy again? You're just going to hold in all those desires until they eat you up? Where's the nobility in that?"

"But I made promises."

"Promises?"

"Yes. We both went to the same Bible college. Her parents teach there. Everyone thinks I'm this great responsible guy. People in my church, at work...you just don't understand!"

"Well, are you a great responsible guy?"

The banker blinked. No one had ever asked him that question before and not expected him to lie. But it was only this moment he realized he had been expected to lie, as if in some unspoken communal agreement to never break the chain. Suddenly it occurred to him he better speak honestly now or he'd die alone and unknown.

The pious couple now

"Well, I don't feel like I'm responsible." The banker waited for a prompt to reveal his horror, his unsavory dark side, his moral turpitude living outside society's approval.

"OK. So why's that? Ya kill somebody?"

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. More like...well, it started with this girl walking down by the beach in this black thong. Her butt was perfect" - again he demonstrated with his hands - "and she wasn't ashamed and just let it all hang out like a real woman. I just couldn't get that moment out of my mind. She's stayed with me ever since."

"So what you going to do about it? Get ya some piece on the side and use that to make your marriage work."

"You can do that??"

"Sure? You think you're the first guy in history who's had obligations? Lots of great men had affairs. It keeps them alive."

"I just don't think I could ever do that. I've been doing something else instead."

"Like what?"

"Looking for pictures." The banker hoped for some tempering of his sins in the man's eyes but found none. "I started looking for pictures of other girls on beaches. I'm searching all the time. It's like if I don't find some new ones every day I can't grow, I can't feel alive."

"So what's your wife gonna do if she walks in and catches you wanking off to hot babes on the internet?"

"Oh, she'd never catch me!" assured the banker, a bit perturbed he actually had to admit his masturbatory ways.

"That ain't the point! She's already caught you! You're guilty in your own mind. Women know shit like this. You gotta figure out what you're going to say to her."

"What can I possibly say to her! Look, this is crazy. I shouldn't have said anything in the first place." The banker suspected he was being laughed at but was too afraid to admit it.

Changing men's lives

"Relax, you're among friends here. You think on the list of sins on this planet a little porn amounts to a hill of beans? It's nothin'!"

These people are so different than church. They take impure thoughts so seriously there and here he dismisses them like a traffic ticket. Who's right? Maybe the church elders have just been manipulating my guilt all along, convincing me it's more serious than it really is. Jesus in heaven, who is my real friend?

"It's not really porn. Just girls in bikinis."

"Even better! You're human! So what?"

"You make it sound so...small."

"It is small! See, I tell ya what. You tell your wife she looks like them girls in the pictures you'd be all over her in a heartbeat."

"It's true!"

"Tell her you don't like doing it but you're trying hardest you can not to stray and keep things together. She's just gotta change back is all!"

"It's true! It's all true!"

"See? You're a man. You got no say in your urges. Women don't understand that and want you to believe you can control it like it's a bad habit or somethin'. That's why there's no talking to them! If she ain't gonna take care of you you gotta find somebody that will. Them's just the rules of life."

"I want to be happy with one woman forever."

"Course you do! But she ain't lettin' it happen! It's up to you, man. Do what you want. Another few years you gonna be dead inside and be everything you hated as a kid. I can't live your life for you. Nobody can."

To the banker it seemed the bar grew quieter - or at least more distant - as the various possible paths of his life played out before him. Was it true self-denial is the actual sin, not his desire to live? How could he walk away and ever be called a good man again? How could he stay and not be revealed for the fraud he is? Could he really make it work with a bikini girl on the side? But hadn't he lambasted in unfathomable fury men who'd acted like that? Without realizing it, he spoke aloud.

"I'm fucked..."

The bartender gave a gentle nudge. "You need a refill there, mister?"

"No, no," replied the banker still distracted. "I better go now. Thanks."

His bar mate bid him well, exhorting him to "think about what I said, OK?"

"I will. I will. Not sure really what to think if you know what I mean."

The bar mate gave a knowing wink as he turned to the bartender who dished out a gentle scolding.

"You really fucked with that guy's head. You know he's got to find out why his wife's eating so much. He goes up to her saying he wants some hot chick to fuck he'll get his head blown off."

"Yeah, I know!"

"You're a real bastard, you know that?" smirked the bartender. "You want another one or is it getting too close to time?"

"No, I better go. If that hippo wife of mine catches me here it'll be hell. I just wish to hell I could be there for his next conversation with his wife. I bet it's a good one!"

"We've all got to go around the block sometime."

"Yep, ain't no lie worth livin' - but we's all doin' it."